


Itch

by xenokattz



Series: 34 [1]
Category: Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenokattz/pseuds/xenokattz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But if you think about it, it's really too soon for all of this, isn't it? How do we know this isn't forced closeness related to life-affirming actions after immense post-traumatic stress? In another five months, I could really hate you for never put your clothes in the hamper when you change. It's three feet tall and canary yellow, how can you miss it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itch

The back of Lois' brain itched. That very same sensation led to her most acclaimed articles so she wasn't prone to ignoring it. However, this particular itch pointed towards Clark Kent. The same Clark Kent currently pressed between sweaty bodies to prevent drunken fights in a Miami club if she recalled his schedule correctly so there was really no reason why she should have paused before her door. 

Except the cheesy goodness aroma hit her as soon as the elevator opened to her floor and it only got stronger as she approached her apartment. She turned the key, pressed the code, and cocked her head at Clark's hunched form over the stove. His notebook was open on the coffee table, pen in the margin pointing to the last written paragraph. Garlic and parsley bread scorched pleasantly over the grill top. Lois had no idea she had a grill top.

"Slow night in Luxx-With-Two-X's?" she asked.

He shook his head and a pan of French beans. "The owner and I had a disagreement. I thought his son shouldn't bring underage kids to the backroom; he thought his son was legitimately interviewing potential servers."

"How do you know he wasn't?"

Times like these, Lois realised Clark was actually a chatterbox. His expression pretty much delivered a State of the Union address regarding the topic at hand.

* * *

Eight days after Zod's forces levelled all of Sri Lanka and a good portion of Metropolis, Lois decided enough was enough. The climb up her condo's fire escape turned into the beginnings of a story on updating building codes while respecting the Metropolis School of Architecture, a long-upheld urban plan currently faltering in the face of developers' billions. She lived east of the business district, where the skyscrapers meandered into apartments gentrified from mid-century brick buildings. Which meant absolutely nothing in the aftermath of Zod's attack except that when the building beside hers fell, the occupants didn't have as far to fall. Also that the whole block had enough generators on the go to stick power bars out their windows for people charge their phones or medical devices.

Lois scaled two whole ladders to the roof, saw the devastation, and suddenly, she was back on that faulty escape pod, jettisoned into the planet's outer atmosphere, not knowing if she'd burn before she suffocated. Even when she clenched her eyes, smoke scorched her nostrils and she had to use her second therapist's PTSD advice to bring her back to now. This was why she drank single malt whisky, dammit, but that wasn't an option today because her bottle was out and her favourite liquor store was probably dust which was the least of Metropolis' problems and definitely so far beyond Sri Lanka's cares that she felt like the very same thoughtless One Percent she'd written about for even resenting their need even though it was whisky or screaming--

"Lois?"

Clark stood beside her. His hand steadied her shaking. His fingertips exuded heat.

"Are you okay?"

"I didn't realise I was yelling that loud," she said, wobbling up a grin.

"You weren't yelling. I, uh--" He reddened. "I heard your heart racing. Like when you were falling."

That was... sweet. But also kind of creepy. She told him so. He went even redder.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to. I just... I'll stop."

"Why were you even listening in the first place?" she wanted to know.

"You might find it creepy."

"I'm curious; I'll risk it."

He sighed. "Sounds, smells, visuals, they all--" He gathered an armful of air and compressed it into his head. "I need something to concentrate on when it gets to be too much."

"And you concentrated on me," said Lois.

"It's either you or my mom and she's, um, visiting a friend."

"What, now you're so polite you don't even listen into your mom's stitch and bitch group?"

"A gentleman friend," he clarified.

Oh. Awkward.

"I'm glad you're here anyway," Lois said, gamely forging on because once you've brought up parental issues, you could ask anything. "I was wondering where you're hanging your cape. I don't think I've heard about you resting since last week. I know you haven't been at your mom's, gentleman friend notwithstanding. I've called her."

"It's been pretty bad in Asia," said Clark. "I don't really need to sleep."

"But you _do_ need it sometimes." She waggled her phone in front of his face. "Martha gets worried."

He sighed again. "If you're okay, Lois, I should really be getting back to--"

"Come inside. I have Ethiopian take-out and a six-pack."

"I really can't--"

"Plus my building occasionally has hot water. You should shower."

"Do I smell?" He grinned, peeking at her through his ridiculous eyelashes.

"Like smoke, blood, and exhaustion."

Lois made her way back down to her fire escape without waiting to see if Clark would follow. She had both feet on the first landing before Clark clanged down after her. She smiled, victorious.

* * *

"I should still be able to make rent this month," Clark was saying as he spooned sautéed French beans into a storage container-slash-serving bowl. "Gotham's nightclubs have a high turnover for bouncers. I can look there. It'll be a much shorter commute. I'll have more time to write."

"First of all, I already told you before not to worry about rent," said Lois. "You help people around the world completely for free. The Planet and the Associated Press is giving me big bucks to write about you. The least I can do is give you room and board while you do that _and_ finish your degree. Secondly, Gotham is fucking creepy. I wouldn't send an Ayn Rand fan there to give away daisies, nevermind get a job as a bouncer."

"I don't stay where I can't pay my way," he said, jaw jutting out.

"Fine, I'm hiring you as my housekeeper and cook. Pass the goddamn garlic bread."

He plated the goddamn garlic bread then turned on his heel to fetch whatever cheesy goodness was in the oven.

Lois put down her slice as soon as she'd taken a bite. "What is your actual problem, Clark?"

"I told you: I want to pay my way."

"And I'm telling you, I don't need you to."

"Then I'll find my own place."

"Where? Metropolis is still only half built and even before redevelopment, rent is beyond the paycheque of a part-time bouncer unless you have two roommates. That's going to cramp your other job. You can't go back to Smallville where everyone knows your name and the closing of the local strip mall means the best way to pay for _their_ rent is to rat you out."

"It's not like that." Clark placed a bubbling casserole dish in the middle of the kitchen island. It had mashed potatoes under a glorious goo of melted cheese and smelled like every wonderful thing that had ever come out of a Midwestern grandma's kitchen.

"Not yet."

Clark closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. "I need to go."

"No, you don't."

But he was gone, leaving Lois with savoury garlic bread, lemony French beans, a casserole good enough to bathe in, and a gallon of guilt. She blamed his goddamned eyelashes.

* * *

Lois had a roommate in college once.

Living with Clark was much easier especially with the lack of Garth Brooks.

* * *

The hairs on Lois' arms rose. She finished typing up a paragraph then spun her chair around to find Clark standing beside the sofa. Even more dirt than usual mucked up his boots, traces of mud spattered the backpack he lugged around to hide his work clothes. His hair curled in wet ringlets, like he ducked under a water pump for a wash. Knowing Clark, he more likely ducked under the Atlantic Ocean.

"It's just that--" He fidgeted and looked down. Realizing the state of his shoes, he toed them off and stretched out the window to place them on the fire escape because damn his height any way. "It's just that I don't want to take advantage of your generosity."

"Did it ever occur to you that I don't want to be like every other grasping excuse for a tabloid leech calling themselves a journalist by taking advantage of your vulnerability?" Lois shot back.

His lips twitched.

"Yes, _vulnerability_. Clark, correct me if I'm wrong but aside from your mom, I'm the only real friend you have." His lashes swept downward but Lois forged on, hurt feelings be damned, because he needed to understand. "You've just been through a massive upheaval-- physically, emotionally, morally-- and I'm one of two people you feel like you can trust with all of this because you don't want to burden your mother any more. But at the same time, you feel like a burden to my life so you're trying to assuage your guilt and also maybe ingratiate yourself into one of the two stable relationships you've had in forever by paying rent and cooking and cleaning and--"

"Lois, the first time I stayed over, your stove had a layer of dust an inch thick and the only contents of your fridge, aside from take-out containers, was four beers and a jar of something green. The label said it was mustard. I think it screamed when I flushed it down the toilet." Clark licked his lips. She had a sneaking suspicion he wanted to laugh. "I may have subconscious ulterior motives behind everything else but cooking for you is entirely an exercise in self-preservation."

Lois narrowed her eyes and held her arms out. "Don't pretend you don't love Farouk's Shawarma Bros as much as I do."

"Farouk might be my other best friend." Clark dropped his bag and zoomed in for the embrace. He radiated heat all over. He smelled like seawater and ozone despite the cigarette-and-joint smoke saturating his bouncer clothes. His lips, pressed against her temple, her ear, the top of her head, were softer and plusher than anyone's lips had any right to be.

"Did we have our first fight?" she asked.

"First?"

She flapped a hand. "You _know._ A fight-fight."

Clark tilted his head to one side, this time letting his smile loose. "You mean a relationship fight?"

"If you must be saccharine about it..."

"If you want saccharine..." His embrace turned into a lift with both his arms encircling her, her breasts pressed against his chest, leaving her hands free to cup his face for some proper sexy tongue action. Her legs went around his waist, not because she thought he'd drop her. No, she just loved the feel of him between her thighs, a brick wall panting with want.

"You need to google the definition of saccharine because this? Is not it."

"Lois," Clark groaned, not entirely because she rolled her hips against the front of his jeans. "Not the time to copy edit, Lois."

"You like it when I red-line you."

He kissed her again. Probably to shut her up. Lois was okay with that though because her hands were still free and she could snake them down his incredibly stretchy shirt, thank you very much posh-bar-bouncer dress codes. He withstood that for all of ten seconds then switched her weight to one arm so she could pull the shirt off, a move that was always hot as fucking hell. Her boyfriend-- man friend? lover? hunkahunka burnin' lo-- (no, not that word, not yet [yet?!?!])-- was slab upon slab of muscle covered in velvety skin with body hair that felt more like embroidery floss than whiskers, and Lois was all too happy to take advantage. She might be that sorry excuse of a tabloid leech when it came to Clark sexually speaking, but she couldn't find it in herself to be sorry for it when his free hand was down her pants, stroking her clit like a fucking expert and her tongue was in his mouth memorizing the texture of his palate. She scrabbled at his back, needing to be closer, so much fucking closer. Clark barked out a laugh.

"What?" Lois demanded.

"Red-lining." He laughed again. Bobbing his chin at his back where her nails were failing to take purchase. "You're still trying to red-line me."

"And it would work too if you weren't made of unobtanium."

That made him laugh once more. The vibrations did fantastic things to her lady bits; Lois gasped and bit her lower lip. 

"Lois." He kissed her, both arms embracing her again, like she was precious and fragile and rare. He kissed her like he needed her breath. Like she was the sun. "Oh, Lois."

She broke off the kiss to rest her forehead on his. At this distance, his eyes blended into cyclopean blues and browns. His breath heated her collarbones. Her sweat dampened his brow. She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. There were those lashes again. Damn lashes.

"I'm dangerously close to maybe wanting you here for a while, Smallville." Her hand went around to cup the back of his head, his curls springing out from between her fingers. "If you break my heart, I'm going find a way to make you hurt so bad, Zod's going to look like a kindergarten teacher."

"Lois."

"No, I take that back. I'm not such a huge bitch that I'd take away the world's best, most efficient first responder. I'll just refuse to write glowing articles about you. And bribe Farouk's loyalty."

"Lois."

"I swear to God, Clark, I feel like a complete idiot but I'm too fucking old to play The Game with regards to does he or doesn't he or hold back until there's X amount of proof Skinner-box style, and besides The Game is such a stupid concept to begin with, so I'm just laying it out there but, please, if you're doing this out of a sense of gratitude or you're feeling _that_ bad about not making rent this month, let's just stop right now--"

"I'm afraid, too, you know. I don't want us to be a result of duty." He thumbed her lower lip. "I don't know how else to show you that I'm dangerously close to falling in love with you, Lois Lane."

"Four more seconds of me blabbering should do it."

"Absolutely." He bent down for another kiss.

Lois leaned back. "But if you think about it, it's really too soon for all of this, isn't it? How do we know this isn't forced closeness related to life-affirming actions after immense post-traumatic stress? In another five months, I could really hate you for never put your clothes in the hamper when you change. It's three feet tall and canary yellow, how can you miss it?"

Clark let out a sigh right from his extremely powerful diaphragm. He slumped his head on Lois' shoulder. "I pick up my clothes afterwards."

"But why pick it up afterwards when you could put it in the hamper first thing?"

"It takes me literally one second."

"And it would take you less than that to _not_ have to pick them up off the floor. Do you see what I'm getting at? Remove the middle step."

"Lois, are you trying to use antagonism to avoid feelings?"

She rubbed up against his groin. "I might also be using sex."

He thrust his hips at her in response. "Too bad. Your four seconds are up. I'm madly in love with you. Even with your insistence that coffee and nicotine gum are food groups."

Lois cycled through so many possible retorts to his declaration that she ended up not saying anything at all. Instead, she tucked her head in the curve of his neck where he smelled most strongly of ozone and earth, where his curls could mop up any possibility of her eyes leaking. He cupped her head close, his hand resting in the back of her head, right at that part which had not stopped itching since she came home from work. He scratched the itch.


End file.
